Code(60)

Eyes wide, Shelton began frantically searching for cameras. He squatted to investigate the far corner, running his hands along the ground. Then he jerked his fingers back, no doubt abruptly remembering that a poisonous reptile was still at large.

“How’d that wacko get a body into this coffin?” Hi began pacing. “All the way out here, in the woods? Past the monks, through all those gardens? That’s incredibly far to carry so much dead weight. And how’d he move the lid?”

Ben opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He seemed dazed.

I had a second terrible notion.

Though awful to contemplate, I had to be sure.

Moving to the sarcophagus, I aimed my flashlight at the poor soul crumpled within. Then, gathering my courage, I reached down and began rolling up one of his sleeves.

“What are you doing?” Shelton was close to hysterical. “Tory, stop it!”

I met Shelton’s eye. “It’s important. I promise.”

“Then please, please be careful. We shouldn’t tamper with the scene.”

Moving deliberately, I pressed two fingers against the man’s exposed forearm. Was the skin still warm? I couldn’t be sure, but it definitely wasn’t cold. After a three count, I removed the pressure and examined the contacted area.

The spot I’d pressed was now bone white. As I watched, color flooded back, as blood refilled the subsurface capillaries. In seconds the white spot was gone.

I nearly fainted.

My flare withered and died.

Ben must’ve read my expression. “What is it?”

“Blanching,” I whispered.

“What?”

“Blanching.” I cleared my throat, unable to process my finding. “I was checking to see if blood would return to the soft tissue where skin is pressed and released. It did.”

Hi looked confused. “So?”

“The phenomenon only occurs for a short period after death.” I wiped shaky hands on my jeans. “Within thirty minutes, Hiram.”

“Oh Lord.” The yellow glow died in Shelton’s eyes. “So this man was alive—”

“A half hour ago,” I blurted. “Maybe less.”

Ben whirled, slammed both fists against the wall. He swore. Punched again and again until his knuckles ran bloody. His flare died. I’d never seen him so shaken.

“The Gamemaster probably walked this poor bastard here!” Hi’s voice rose in panic. “Made him push open his own grave!”

I nodded, unable to speak.

This killer wasn’t merely heartless and cruel.

The Gamemaster was a thrill seeker. A risk taker.

“He murdered this man while we toured the grounds.” I had to say it out loud.

Shelton shuddered. “Unthinkable. Insane!”

“The message,” Hi said. “Should we open it?”

I retrieved the envelope, careful not to further disturb the victim inside the coffin. Using my flashlight, I examined its exterior.

Printed on the flap was a string of numbers: 123456.

The code.

I handed the letter to Hi.

No one protested as I input the digits. Everyone seemed numb.

The screen turned white. Bells pealed from the iPad’s speakers.

Orange letters appeared on a field of green:



Task complete!

Now it’s time for the Final Challenge. Combine what you’ve learned to uncover The Danger. But don’t dally! Fail this time, and you lose The Game for good.

You have until Friday at 9:00 p.m. Tell no one, ever, or suffer The Consequences.


Good luck!

The Gamemaster

“Screw you!” Chest heaving, Shelton slammed the iPad to the ground. “The police can deal with this psychopath now!”

Hi drew in a short, quick breath. His knees wobbled and he nearly collapsed.

I grabbed his arm. “You okay?”

“No cops.” Hi was shaking uncontrollably. “Not now.”

“What are you talking about?” Shelton demanded. “Why not?”

Hi had opened the envelope. He handed it to me.

Bold letters adorned the outside flap: The Consequences.

Heart hammering, I pulled a stack of papers from inside.

One look, and my knees wobbled, too.

I may have gasped.

The envelope was stuffed with pictures. Ben and I walking to the dock. Shelton and Hi exiting Bolton’s front gates. The four of us preparing Sewee for a cruise.

And those weren’t the worst.

There were photos of Kit and Whitney in a Folly Beach café. Of Ruth Stolowitski taking out the trash. One showed Ben’s mother reading on her porch in Mount Pleasant. Another caught Nelson Devers sneaking a cig behind his garage.

The pictures were of excellent quality. Many from close range. There were shots of our front doors, our parents’ cars, even one of Coop, bounding through the dunes.

The message was crystal clear: I know where you live. I know your families. I can get to them at anytime.

Play The Game, or your loved ones will suffer.

Hi was right. We couldn’t talk. Had no choice but to keep going.

Once again, the Gamemaster was a step ahead.

I’d never been more afraid.





PART THREE:

COTILLION